Goodnight lovers
by Potix
Summary: "I want to let you free. Please delete me from your life, I'll do the same - SH". Trigger warning: mention of miscarriage.
1. Chapter 1

******Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. I just own my computer, my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, and this story is un-betaed, so please forgive the mistakes and the typos.**

**Hello there! My dear Flavialikestodraw (whom you sure already know from her fanworks, that you may find in the Sherlolly and Khanolly tags on Tumblr) had a fantastic idea to make a full story, starting from my two drabbles ""It doesn't matter" and ""It doesn't matter -reprise" (that I already posted in my drabbles collection called "Broken "). **

**This prologue is simply the union of my two drabbles, with just a few new sentences; the rest of the story is Flavia's own idea (with some occasional incursions from me), so please, feel free to send her tons of lovely PMs telling her your appreciation for this story (because I'm sure you will love it as much as I do).**

**So, without further ado...here it is. Enjoy!**

**Irene (aka Potix)**

_**Prologue **_

* * *

_**And oh what a feeling**_

_**Inside of me**_

_**It might last for an hour**_

_**Wounds aren't healing**_

_**Inside of me**_

_**Though it feels good now**_

_**I know it's only for now**_

**"It doesn't matter two" -Depeche Mode**

* * *

It didn't happen the first night he spent at her flat. Sherlock Holmes was a dead man, after all, and Molly Hooper was not a necrophiliac, despite the ugly gossip in the morgue.

And it didn't happen the first time he was forced to return to London; a Moriarty's associate had proved himself worthier than the others he had already destroyed, and he needed assistance from the only doctor he could trust at the moment. Mycroft disagreed, but in the end Sherlock Holmes spent a week in Molly's bed, driving her crazy with his silence and the worry about his wounds.

It happened the second time he came back. He didn't leave her the time to ask what was wrong, because his lips were already on hers, his hands untying her ponytail, and he was devouring her, engulfing her breath until they both were panting.

It was frantic, desperate, and unsatisfying (for her). Then she had led him to her bathroom, and prepared a bath for him. When Sherlock entered her bedroom, she was already under the sheets, clinging to them like the last wreck in the ocean after a storm.

He woke her up after a few hours, and that time, he made Molly come twice, before emptying himself in her womb. She didn't ask why, and he never told her that two days before, he had witnessed one of Mycroft's men kill a woman with chestnut hair, and warm brown eyes, and thin lips.

He never revealed to her that for a moment, in the lifeless face of a cruel spy, he had seen his most terrible nightmare.

The next morning, Molly pretended to be asleep, as she felt him leaving a silent kiss on her only memento of his presence beside her during the night was his scent on her sheets, and a love bite under her breast. They both disappeared after a few days.

* * *

_**If we should meet again**_

_**Don't try to solve the puzzle**_

_**Just lay down next to me**_

_**And please don't move a muscle**_

**"It doesn't matter"- Depeche Mode"**

* * *

She didn't realize she was pregnant until the tenth week; her period had always been quite erratic, and she had not had a sexual partner for months...until that night with Sherlock. It had been Meena, who had joked about her frequent nausea and her complaints about the unusual tenderness of her breasts, to make her wonder if it could be another reason that a bug for her symptoms. A quick blood test and a visit to her gynecologist confirmed what she already suspected.

She was pregnant. She was expecting Sherlock Holmes' child, and she could not tell none.

She spent the first five weeks trying to avoid everyone she knew, in the vain hope none would notice: she remembered her mother telling her that after the first five moths, that her figure had not changed much, and she could only pray it would be the same for her. She spent her nights worrying about Sherlock would say, and do, after his return (because she was sure he would be back, it could not be otherwise), and dreaming of a cute girl, with her hair and his eyes, sleeping in her arms.

Until one evening, while she was stitching up poor Mr Saval, the bleeding started. She rushed upstairs to her doctor, and there her gynecologist could only state the obvious: miscarriage. She had a dilation and curettage the next day, and with that she buried all her anguish about Sherlock's reaction, and her fantasies about a child with bright, opal eyes and chestnut hair.

Six months later, Tom arrived in her life, and after a while, the IUD, and the engagement. And then Sherlock came back.

* * *

Thankfully, if he deduced something, he didn't tell her anything. And after all, they were too busy (with the terroristic threat to London, John and Mary's wedding) to be able, or simply to want, to breach the subject. For all Molly knew, Sherlock had probably deleted every particular about their intimate moments together. She wished to be able to do the same: instead, little fragments - a moan, a touch, an intake of his scent - continued to torment her mind, especially when he was alone in the same bedroom that had witnessed a night of sex and comfort.

Tom was already out of her life when the Magnussen case happened: Sherlock's relapse, his manipulation of Janine, made her question (not for the first time, unfortunately), what kind of man she had fallen in love with, and what kind of woman she was for continuing to love him.

And then, another dead man came back.

* * *

When Mycroft's agents let him enter Molly Hooper's flat, Sherlock Holmes knew he had to tell her the truth. That he had murdered a man (a vile, depraved, repugnant man), and that he had no idea how James Moriarty had escaped death to torture all of them again.

But that night, she had to tell him the truth, too: because a well aimed line from Mycroft, while he was about to board the plane("I'm sorry, but this time you are not allowed to say goodbye to your pathologist - we don't want to risk to leave another unfinished business behind, don't we?"), only confirmed what he had already suspected.

When he opened her bedroom, the lights outside enlightened her silhouette under the sheets, her back facing him. In the dark room, a plethora of questions crowded around his mind. For once, he ignored the puzzle; he laid down next to her, his curls on her pillow, his lips just a breath away from her nape. He let his fingers search for hers, and together, they placed their hands upon her abdomen. For the moment, it was enough, for both of them.

**Thanks for reading. Leave a review, you will receive good influence and beautiful dreams.**


	2. Chapter 2

******Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. I just own my computer,my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, and this story is un-betaed, so please forgive the mistakes and the typos.**

**Hello I'm FlaviaLikestoDraw, from this chapter begins the part I wrote. Potix helped me to fix my horrible grammar mistakes. ****This is the very first time that I wrote a fanfiction, I'don't trust much my writing skills, so please let me know what you think.*****Throw the sheet and hides in the corner***

* * *

_**Chapter 1**_

_**I am happy **_

_**That I have you **_

_**Even though you're not here now **_

_**I know somewhere **_

_**You are dreaming **_

_**Though it's definitely not of me **_

**"It doesn't matter"- Depeche Mode"**

* * *

**3 months later**

His gaze was slipping over the woman who was sleeping his bed, her right hand on her belly and her other on his empty side. He was on his chair, his back to the window and a cigarette between his fingers.

He was staring again.

A hour or two had already passed, who knows? The time wasn't important, not now.

Thousand thoughts, fragments of memories, had crossed his mind.

She ought not to be there, in his room. She should be in another place, with another man. Not with him. She deserved someone - anyone - better than him. She deserved a family, children, a happy life. Love. Everything that he would never give to her.

Because he was a selfish man, incapable of loving someone. Because he was using her, as he had always done before.

Those last words were in an endless loop in his mind.

Those last words were the main theme of their latest fight. It had been few hours ago: he had repeated and shouted those words to her over and over again, like he was trying to convince himself first, not only her.

He had stood in front of her, his voice cold and hopeless . His eyes were fixing her face, her lips, but it was her who had started the kiss. It wasn't romantic: it was desperate, angry, as if she wanted to take a piece of him. He didn't stop her. He didn't want to stop her.

It was like their first time 3 years ago: it was rash, frenzied, and passionate. The dresses were scattered around his sitting room - there wasn't time to reach the bedroom. He was lying on his back with her on top of him: her nails scratching his chest, his hands grabbing tightly her hips. There wasn't any other kiss after her first: only bites, scratches and bruises. He flipped her on her back, his hands pinned her wrists above her head. Their lips were few inches apart - sharing the same breaths - and then she bit her bottom lip strong enough to taste his blood.

He released her hands and grabbed her hips - he was strong enough to leave bruises - and finally pushed himself in her wild abandon. His right hand slipped between their bodies to caress her clit: he needed for her to find her release before his, he needed to see her face on the verge of ecstasy for the very last time - he wanted...no, he needed to bring that piece of her with him. She came first, he followed after few thrusts, his eyes still fixed on her, as if he wanted to memorize every inch of her face. He slipped out of her with a groan and reached out his hand to move a strand of hair like he had always done before, but she pulled back her head and turned her gaze away from him.

Her eyes were empty, but he read the silent plea in them: "Please let me free...". She couldn't, or simply didn't want to see him anymore. He stared at her for the last time, then he stood up, picked up his clothes and began to wear them again in the cold silence of his sitting room. He heard her go into the bathroom, close the door and start a shower. He could hear her quiet sobbing and he really wanted to follow her, to comfort her, to tell her that everything he had said wasn't real, but he couldn't. There was only one last thing to do: to grant her wish, and let her go.

Because he was a selfish man, incapable of loving someone. Because he was using her, as he had always done before.

He put on his coat and went out of his flat into the cold night.

* * *

Few hours later he was back into his apartment. He pushed the door of his bedroom and he saw her again: she was lying on his bed, her naked body covered by his sheets, her right hand on her belly and her other on his empty side. He sat up in his chair in front of her. He was staring at her, trying to memorize every inch of her.

There was a dark mark on her neck (he didn't remember when he did it to her), scratches and bites on her forearm and her breasts, on her cheeks were still some slight traces of dried tears.

He didn't want to leave...but he needed to.

He stood up and placed a letter on his empty side,few inches away from her face. She shifted into his bed, her hand still holding his pillow tight. There was no kiss this time , he didn't want to wake her. He went out of his flat again in the early morning and didn't returned there for two days.

Molly woke up at the sound of a closed door, she stood up and put the sheets around her then she saw the letter. It was on his pillow and she recognized his elegant writing on it. She opened it with shaking hands, and read it in silence.

**Molly,**

**When you'll wake up, I will already be gone. It has been a mistake, all of this. I'm not a hero, or an angel. I'm a cruel junkie, a dangerous selfish man, Molly. You've always known this.****..because you can see me, all of me.**

**You love me and I can see that every time you look at me...but I can't love you ****back,** **because I used you, like every time before.**

**I can't understand your love for me and I don't need to.**

**Sentiment is just a pathetic human error, and I don't need it in my life, ****asI don't need you in my life. **

**You deserve someone better than me. Someone who really loves you. Not me.**

**I want to let you free. **

**Please delete me from your life, I'll do the same.**

**SH**

* * *

As much as she tried, not one tear fell on the letter. She got dressed, and picked up meticulously every single items she had left in his bathroom, in the living room, in his bedroom. She erased every traces of her passage in Sherlock Holmes' flat, and in his life. She climbed down the stairs carefully, trying not to alert Mrs Hudson of her leaving. When she finally reached the door, she opened it, and let the fresh air caress her skin. The letter still burned in her coat's pocket: she took it out, and without reading it again, she tore it up, and let the paper bits dance down, until they reached the pavement. She trod on them when a cab finally stop in front of her.

"If freedom is his last gift, I will accept it. And never give it back".

**Thanks for reading. Leave a review, you will receive good influence and beautiful dreams.**


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